Relieve The Pressure
by Oscared
Summary: Dean takes three separate knocks to the head in the span of two weeks. The boys aren't communicating. Takes place the weeks following 5x01 Limp!Dean


**A/N:** I know I said that my last fic would be...well...my last fic. And it's not a total lie because technically I wrote this one first, just never did anything with it.

I just wanted to even out the whumpage a bit. Can't give it all to Sam. That's plain old unfair.

**Summary:** Takes place in the weeks following 5x01. The boys aren't feeling the communication vibe.

****

Dean takes three separate knocks to the head in the span of two weeks. They both notice, both keep track, but they don't talk about it. Not because they're avoiding that particular discussion, but because they don't talk about anything.

They avoid everything.

The first time, Dean's more angry than hurt, furiously eyes the egg-sized bump in the mirror that night. A couple aspirins, a good sleep later, it's forgotten.

The second time, two days later, he stumbles a bit, reflexively grabs a handful of Sam's jacket until he regains his balance. Sam stands perfectly still—doesn't help, doesn't pull away. It sums up their current relationship. There, but just as much as they have to be. No more, no less.

Dean has to use a dirty, balled-up t-shirt—one he finds on the floor of the Impala—to stem the bleeding on the way back to the motel. Three stitches along the hairline, a low dose painkiller, and a sleep that's interrupted every couple hours by an alarm that's set and reset every time without comment by a younger brother. Two days with a headache, and it's all but forgotten.

The third time, barely a week after the second, a particularly pissed off spirit takes a shining to Dean. He cracks his head off a gravestone—or at least that's what he's told later, 'cause he certainly doesn't remember.

Gains consciousness in the car, passes out again before they arrive back at the motel.

Sam must somehow get him inside. Dean knows this because the next time he climbs back into the conscious world, he's pretty sure he's on a bed. It's quiet and dark—from what he can tell behind closed eyelids—and though he's still fully clothed, including his jacket, he's under a blanket.

The problem is he has to drink. There's simply no way around it. He has never felt this kind of thirst before. His mouth is dry and cottony, his gut aches, there's white hot pain bursting behind his eyes and all he can think of, the only thing his sludgy brain can picture, is a tall glass of ice cold water.

He mentally and physically gathers his strength, prepares himself for the excruciating process of moving. Maps the most efficient route to the bathroom in his head. Wishes he could convince his pride to just wake up Sam and ask him for some water. 'Cause, Sam, of all people, would understand. Sam, who has been in this situation more times than Dean cares to remember, would know what to do.

One sentence is all it would take. It could be so simple, but it's just so complicated.

When Dean's as ready as he thinks he'll ever be, he opens his eyes, and the surprised breath that escapes his throat comes out as a choked yelp.

It's not from the pain—though _bad_, Dean was prepared for that. It's the fact that Sam's face is hovering three inches above his own that shocks the air out of him.

Dean recoils automatically, slams his eyes shut and almost vomits when the slight movement causes pain to erupt in every nerve ending from his neck up.

"Relax," Sam says flatly. He sounds further away now, but Dean's not willing to open his eyes again to make sure.

Something cold and dry lands on his forehead and over his eyes. Ice. Wrapped in a towel. Dean's familiar—has been on both the giving and receiving end of these packages before. He manages to lift his left hand to hold the awkward bundle in place. The second he has a solid enough grip, he feels the weight of Sam's hand removed.

The cold is welcomed—numbing—but he wants to reach in, grab the ice and shove as much of it in his mouth as possible. He swallows, testing the nausea and trying to produce saliva. His cheeks stick to his teeth, the sides of his throat suction together and separate with a silent pop.

With each second that he stays perfectly still, the pain incrementally recedes, but he still feels like his entire body, including his bones, has been sucked dry. When the blood's no longer rushing through his ears, he chances opening his mouth. The word "water" is on the tip of his tongue, and the only thing that prevents it from being verbalized it is _actual_ water. Dean doesn't think, doesn't move, just blindly swallows and savours every drop.

The bottle is pulled away too quickly, but he's not about to complain.

Already, with the ice and the water and the lack of moving, he's feeling worlds better.

An ice cube slips out of the towel, bounces off his chin and lands on his neck just above the collar of his t-shirt. Before he can decide whether it's even worth reaching up with his free hand to remove it or just let it melt, the choice is taken away from him when Sam's dry fingers swiftly swat it away.

"You trying to take advantage of me?"

Dean surprises himself with the comment. It's like his mouth has a brain of its own, one that isn't scrambled. It's the first thing that he—that either of them—has said that doesn't actually _need_ to be said in a very long time. His body stiffens, nerves and pain ganging up on him at once.

A snort. The bed shifts. "Hate to break it to you," Sam says, a smile evident in his voice, "but you're not really my type."

And it's like someone has pulled a plug, relieved some of pressure. All of a sudden it's more comfortable, easier to breathe. The muscles along the side of Dean's neck, the ones he didn't know he was clenching, relax, allowing his head to sink further into the pillow.

Sometime throughout the night, Sam must take away the makeshift ice pack, because Dean doesn't wake up in a puddle the next morning.

But when he does finally stir, it's to a brief, albeit gentle, squeeze of his shoulder instead of an alarm clock, and when he opens his eyes he receives a quiet, "Morning," from the other bed instead of a blank stare.

And despite the crushing migraine and relentless nausea, Dean can honestly say he hasn't felt better in weeks.


End file.
